


Conversations at Simpson's-in-the-Strand

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:16:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4005553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes doesn't expect a happy ending, but perhaps he'll get one anyway. Set in the early days of their acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations at Simpson's-in-the-Strand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleflink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/gifts).
  * Translation into Polski available: [Rozmowy w Simpson’s na Strandzie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284361) by [tehanu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehanu/pseuds/tehanu)



> Many thanks to Tripleransom, who was kind enough to beta-read this.

.. .. ..

It was almost midnight, and the fire had died down to softly glowing embers. I was curled up in an armchair, watching Watson from beneath lazy, half-closed eyelids. He was seated at his desk, swiftly filing away the documents and notes he had gathered over the course of this week's case. An almost tangible tension filled the room. It had been a long time since I allowed myself this feeling -- this heady anticipation of pleasure. We stood on the brink of an undertaking that would surely change our partnership irrevocably, in ways that I found myself quite incapable of predicting. The uncertainty was oddly exhilarating. Watson raised his head to look at me, and I felt my breath catch in my throat.

Outwardly, he seemed perfectly calm. His surgeon's hands were steady at his task. Only the occasional bob in his throat when he swallowed betrayed the anticipation I knew he felt as much as I did.

It had been very late when we got home. Mrs Hudson had left us a fire in the grate and gone to bed; she had grown used to my irregular hours in the six months I'd been living there. The hours Watson kept had become just as irregular since he started to accompany me on cases.

I closed my eyes, and simply sat listening to the occasional crackle of the fire, and the sound of rustling paper. It had been a long day and a successful one. The case -- the fourth in which Watson had participated -- had turned out to be quite a challenge, and Watson and the police had been suitably impressed by my identification of the murderer, the latter grudgingly and the former openly.

The case involved a printing press for the production of false bank bonds, a corpse abandoned in the middle of Temple Inn, a typing school for young ladies, and the son of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. It came to a conclusion in a small warehouse on the Isle of Dogs. I contacted Lestrade, and had him meet me there to perform the actual arrests. The warehouse was heavily guarded, but Lestrade and his men had the force of numbers on their side. Within minutes we had penetrated to the heart of the building, where the leader of the gang was holed up.

"I arrest you for the willful murder of Matthias Stokes, barrister-at-law," Lestrade announced, before ducking as he received an answer in the form of a hail of bullets.

The firefight that followed was intense but brief. The man was heavily outnumbered, and soon overpowered. Ten minutes later we were back out on the street again, a whole string of handcuffed ruffians in tow. I looked around for Watson, and found him kneeling on the ground treating the gunshot wound one of the forgers had sustained. While Lestrade barked orders at his men, I leant against a wall, lit a cigarette, and watched Watson bind the injured man's leg up with swift, capable movements.

I believe I first fell for Watson while watching him extract a bullet. I have always been drawn to competent men, and Watson was an excellent doctor. It was the army's loss when they discharged him, and my gain. His health had improved enormously in the six months I'd known him, however, and I sometimes wondered if he would try to return to active duty in some form. I hoped he would not.

Having a companion and confidant was a strange and novel experience for me. At first, I simply relished the opportunity to show off to him. Later, I realised I didn't need to. I didn't have to constantly entertain and impress him to keep him by my side. I could let him see me fail, and not lose him. That was perhaps the moment I realised I was in thrall to far more than his jawline and his capable hands.

The police carriages arrived at that point, closely followed by the police ambulance. I turned to Watson, who was packing up his medical case.

"Dinner at Simpson's?" I suggested.

He hesitated.

"Mr Custer-Beddington will be writing me a handsome cheque tomorrow morning," I reminded him.

Custer-Beddington was the Chancellor of the Exchequer's son, through whom we'd first become involved in the case. 

"In that case, gladly," Watson said readily.

I was still thinking about Custer-Beddington as we took our seats at the restaurant. He was a handsome man, and obviously rather taken with Watson, as he had discreetly made clear. It was not a risk I should have taken with a stranger known to work closely with the police, but Custer-Beddington had seemed to feel the possible gain was worth the danger.

I had observed Watson's polite but firm, and equally discreet, refusal of Custer-Beddington's advances. I wondered whether I should venture a comment on the matter now. What sort of conversation would it provoke -- an informative one or a dangerous one?

I already knew Watson's tastes lay in an unconventional direction, of course. That was only one of many things I had rapidly divined about him, over the course of our first few days together. Later, I had allowed him to guess that my own tastes might resemble his. We had even discussed the question a few times, usually obliquely but also -- just once -- directly.

In fact, that last conversation had taken place at this very restaurant. We had known each other, at that point, for only three months.

We were celebrating the resolution of a case then also, one which had ended in the restoration of a kidnapped accountant to the bosom of his joyful wife. The happy couple were still clearly occupying Watson's thoughts as we ate our entrees.

"I must say, Mrs Leicester's joy was a pleasure to see," he remarked. I was quite sure I detected a wistful note in his voice.

I had made it my business over the past few months to delve as deeply as possible into Watson's past. I knew he had been engaged once, but never married. I thought it was quite likely he would be, one day. Many a man with his inclinations has made a marriage at least as successful as the average one.

"You sound envious," I said lightly. "Never fear, Doctor. I have no doubt a fine-looking fellow like you will soon be snapped up by a charming young lady."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"Really, Holmes? I'm envious of their closeness, I admit it, but I can't believe a man as observant and perceptive as you thinks I want a 'charming young lady'."

That was followed by a few seconds of dead silence at our table. I hid my surprise with a sip of wine. I had never really expected us to discuss this subject openly. 

Finally, I said dryly, "I don't believe you have a great deal more interest in charming young ladies than I do, no."

At that, the lines of tension around his eyes softened, and I could see an almost imperceptible loosening in his shoulder muscles. Had he really expected me to feign horror at his words? Quite possibly -- he didn't yet know me very well, at that point.

"Nonetheless," I added, "my comment still stands. Very few marriages are based on the participants' true feelings in any case, I imagine."

Watson's features, always so expressive, very clearly displayed his objection to that. His moustache gave a little quiver of exasperation.

"Sometimes I fear your work gives you a horribly distorted view of life, Holmes."

"Perhaps."

That earned me a dissatisfied harrumphing sound. I refused to be drawn any further, however. After a pause, Watson returned to the original topic of conversation, lowering his voice considerably.

"In any case, I doubt I shall ever marry."

"No?"

"It would be terribly unfair on the young lady in question. I couldn't ask that of anyone, unless it were under very particular circumstances."

How peculiar to be discussing this, and in the middle of a crowded room to boot. The buzz of conversation protected us from being overheard, however. Indeed, this felt like a safer place to discuss the topic than our own sitting room -- safer in the sense that the conversation could not, of necessity, become too deep or too dangerous.

I raised an eyebrow at Watson in turn.

"And yet you hanker after it. Why? Are you really such a slavish follower of fashion, my dear fellow?"

He shook his head vigorously. He was leaning towards me now, his face animated with the conviction behind his words.

"It's not just a matter of following convention," he insisted. "Can't you see there's something very appealing about mutual commitment -- stability, a helpmate, a steadfast friend in sickness and in health." He paused for a moment, staring out across the crowded room, and then his gaze refocussed to meet mine. "Haven't you ever thought about it, Holmes?"

"Marriage? Certainly not."

"I didn't mean marriage, exactly." He paused again, clearly gathering his thoughts. "You know, when I was younger, I had a close friend -- a very close friend. He was a fellow medical student. You understand, I think, what we were to each other. I thought we would have each other for ever."

"But you didn't, it seems," I said, more dryly than I had intended.

He gave me a sudden, sheepish smile.

"Oh, in the end we grew apart. We were terribly young when we knew each other. When we graduated he went off to open a practice in Lancashire. My point was, ever since then I've been searching for what I thought I could have with him."

I had never even contemplated such a thing for myself.

"That's not quite the invert's lot, is it?" I said lightly.

Watson frowned.

"What do we get, then? Clandestine meetings in remote corners of Hyde Park, and sordid trysts in railway station hotels?"

Precisely, I thought, but Watson didn't look like that was what he wished to hear. Instead of speaking, I offered him another glass of wine from the bottle.

Neither of us brought up the topic again for almost three months.

Tonight, however, we were dining once more at the very same restaurant, and I was thinking of Custer-Beddington.

I quite understood how the man could have been attracted to Watson. Over the past few months, I had observed the changes in my own heart with a mixture of fascination and bewilderment. I should quite like to write a monograph on the process of falling in love, if only I could get my head around the subject. Several aspects of the matter, however, still remained a complete mystery to me. In the past, I had always associated with quiet, discreet, careful men, with whom I could quickly and easily break ties if necessary. Watson was certainly discreet and careful, but otherwise nothing like the choice my rational mind would have made. He was too kind, too thoughtful, too damned astute -- and above all, already too close to me.

Our main courses arrived just as my thoughts reached that point, and roused us both from the reveries we had fallen into.

As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, I turned back to Watson.

"The Chancellor's son seemed particularly taken with you, old chap."

Watson grimaced.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"You weren't tempted?"

Watson, unsurprisingly, was rather taken aback by my referring to the matter directly, but he answered readily enough.

"I believe I've already mentioned my dislike of clandestine meetings in disreputable hotels. Besides..." He paused, and then gave a small shrug and went on. "I hardly noticed him."

"No?"

"How could I, when you were there beside him, brilliant as always?"

He said this in the most matter-of-fact tone possible. I froze, my glass halfway to my lips.

We sat there in silence for a few seconds. Watson was looking quite calm, with only the faintest hint of a blush in his cheeks, which one could almost ascribe to the wine and the heat of the room.

I placed my glass carefully on the table.

"I greatly admire you also," I said with difficulty.

At that, he smiled faintly.

"Yes, I rather thought so."

That was his only reaction, and it won him a rueful look from me.

"Watson, it would flatter my ego more if you looked a little more pleased at that -- or at the very least, affected in some way."

His smile broadened.

"Of course I'm pleased, Holmes. But it's all abstract, isn't it? You've obviously already considering acting on your admiration and then dismissed the idea."

This man will never cease to amaze me, I thought.

"True," I admitted. After a moment's consideration I added, bluntly, "I weighed up the possibility of a few moments' worth of pleasure, and the inconvenience of having to find a new set of rooms, or another fellow to share them with. The result was as you surmised."

Watson nodded calmly, and returned to his beef Bourguignon. I knew him well enough to tell he was far more perturbed than he was trying to appear.

I took up my knife and fork as well, but after only a second I let them fall to my plate again with a clatter.

"Watson," I said.

He looked up.

"When I came to that decision, it was before I really knew you." I swallowed around a sudden, unexpected dryness in my throat. "I believe I was mistaken."

Watson's mouth twisted in an expression of regret.

"On the contrary, Holmes, I think perhaps it was the right decision."

The buzz of the dining room had faded away to nothing in my ears. I had ears only for Watson, and his answer to my next question.

"Why?" I asked.

He shook his head slowly, looking away.

"If we were to -- to start something together, you would be going into it on the assumption that it would one day fail, and we would go our separate ways. Wouldn't you?"

I could not deny it.

The regretful twist of his lips clearly said, _well, then_.

I had never before found myself in a position like this, nor ever expected to. Up until this very moment, I had been convinced this was something I didn't really want, and could certainly do without.

I swallowed.

"Watson," I said, my voice coming out hoarser than I expected. "I can't promise to be as optimistic as you, but -- let me try."

He relaxed, like that was all he'd been waiting to hear. He let out a long, slow breath.

"All right."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"All I ask is that you try."

He was smiling broadly now, and so was I, despite myself. I took a deep, shuddering breath. I suddenly wished we weren't in the middle of a crowded room after all.

When Watson next spoke, it was to tell me about an article he'd read in the journal of the Berlin Physiological Society last week, finally offering definite proof that tuberculosis was not inherited, but rather caused by a living organism. I seized on the topic, grateful for his initiative. We finished the rest of our meal with a fascinating discussion of the sociological and medical aspects of consumption, or the so-called romantic disease, which extended over our cab ride home.

Now, finally back at home, I sat curled up by the fire, watching Watson quickly tidy away his papers. The undercurrent of anticipation thrumming through the sitting room seemed tuned to the beating of my pulse.

Watson sorted the final document, and laid aside the pen he'd been using to make some quick notes. He rose to his feet, and I did the same.

We stood looking at each other.

"I'm going to bed, Watson," I said. "Will you come?"

He gave me a soft, glorious smile.

"Of course."

I have never believed in happy endings, but perhaps Watson's faith would be strong enough for both of us.

.. .. ..

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally inspired by a line from The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes: "We can still see each other clandestinely, on remote benches in Hyde Park, and in the waiting rooms of suburban railway stations." Actually it's not connected with the film in any other way, however, besides the obvious one of being about Holmes...


End file.
